


Welcome to The Garrison

by Louffox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:22:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is the stunningly successful head of a modeling agency, scouting for his next big face. Dean Winchester is a mechanic trying to pay for his brother's schooling. A working relationship wold be constructive for both parties. But their relationship could very easily become more... but is the complication worth the benefits? Also, Dean is straight. And Castiel keeps it professional. They should know better... right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greasemonkey

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not new to writing, but I'm new to this site and I'm still perfecting my in-characterness for Supernatural. So take it with a grain of salt- if I was perfect, I'd be a published writer, not an online bee. Moral of the note: if I'm doing something wrong, or you've got any advice on stuff for navigating and making the most out of this site, then throw me a line!  
> And, for all you lechers, there will be intimacy (gasp!) eventually. Gimme a bit to build up to it, let the plot roll, eh? But we'll get there. Patience, grasshopper.

            Another day, another dollar.

            Dean fucking hated that phrase. It made life seem so… _lifeless_. It was a phrase his father had loved to say in the mornings. Sometimes it was said with cheer, sometimes with anger and resignation. So when the words occasionally floated across his consciousness, usually in the mornings while he made his coffee, he scowled and treated himself to cream, as if a bit of sweetness could chase away his father’s shadow.

            This morning, the cream served the dual purpose of pushing away childhood memories and helping cool the coffee more quickly- he was late. He tried a sip- ow, ow, hot, bad- and rummaged through the cupboard for his travel mug, deciding to take it with him. He filled it and popped the lid on and headed for the door, stopping to step into his boots and leaving the laces to tie later, grabbed his coat, keys, and went out the door. He yawned massively as he parked his impala at the garage.

            At twenty-three, he already had his dream job- a mechanic at his uncle Bobby’s garage, Singer Auto. He loved cars and was the best mechanic there (since Bobby’s eyes had started to go, at least) and he loved every part of it, even the grease and smell and manual labor of it. There was a special kind of pride in being able to build and repair something so complex, to have a smoke-spewing, fluid-spilling, sound-screeching piece of junk to come in and a perfect machine go out. He knew every detail about the whole works of almost every kind of engine, and it never stopped amazing him how carefully and precisely it all worked together. Cars came and went, broke then were repaired, but Dean knew how much the engine depended on exactness, and it always awed him that they didn’t break more often. Everything was part of a perfect whole. He loved being a mechanic.

            However, 8 AM to 8 PM wasn’t exactly his dream schedule to go with his dream job. It was Friday, and he had worked the same long shift on Thursday. He was tired, he wanted some time for himself- to work out, watch TV, cook- hell, even a little time to just to put his feet up. But his brother Sam had just started his first year at Stanford. The kid was a genius and he’d snagged a boatload of scholarships. But Stanford apparently had pure gold shavings in their water and their ivy was made of fucking platinum or something, because he still had a bill. It was a small bill, about the same that someone would pay for a low-end community college, but the Winchester brothers weren’t exactly financially stable. On top of that, Stanford insisted that freshman had to live on campus, which was an assload more money than an apartment.

            Sam had said he would get a job, but Dean had shut that idea down firmly. By studying and working in school, he would be earning those scholarships, which was much better than any crappy minimum wage student-hours job he could find. Dean began packing in more hours than ever. He also quietly cancelled his martial arts classes, concealing that small fact from Sam. He told himself that paying for Sam’s college was an investment- eventually, Sam would use his degree to get a high pay job and he’d help Dean out. But deep down, he knew he didn’t care about getting back anything, he just wanted the kid to be happy.

            His fight buddies were disappointed, but they understood.

            So it was just another day, another dollar.

            “Dean! You pokey ass, am I smelling cream in your coffee? Awfully lady-like, you use a silver spoon to measure it out?” Bobby joked, and Dean laughed, taking a swig and scalding his mouth immediately.

            “Why, you missing your tea party china?” Dean shot back, setting his mug on his bench and propping a foot up to lace his boots.

            Bobby snorted and tossed him his clipboard. “That bitch with the mustang left about six voicemails in the night, she’s gonna want that done pronto. Normally I’d stall to learn her some damn patience, but I just want her out of our hair. And for the love of god, do the detailing yourself. Don’t let Ed go anywhere near it, you know the kind of messes he gets himself into.”

            “Gotcha.” Dean finished lacing up his boot and grabbed his trolley of tools and his creeper.

            The mustang was as much of a pain in the ass as her owner, but Dean eventually got the new hoses fixed in. He ditched his jacket and detailed the interior in his t-shirt, cleaning dust and dirt and lord-knows-what-else out with the air hose before wiping everything carefully down with Armor All- which he then had to scrub off when the woman came and had a bitch fit about, saying she couldn’t have that oil on her skin because of some sensitivity after a de-aging peel, or some shit like that. And because it smelled like a garage. (The fuck did she expect, it had spent two days in a garage, obviously it was going to have a faint gasoline odor.)

            The rest of the vehicles he tended to were fairly simple- changing oil, fixing windshield wipers, changing lights, new windows. He got a nice project after lunch- some poor  redhead girl from up at the campus parked her jeep right in the middle of the lot and got out, sweating and saying she had driven it all the way with no power steering. (Though she used liberal explicative language explaining her situation, saying she refused to go to VIP cause the guys there were cocky douches.) He quickly found her whole fluid pump was a wreck and had to tear it all apart, spilling fluid all over himself and placing an order for a new one.

            He then had to clean up extra careful, because of course his next project was to put some tint on some kid’s windows, which was a cautious enough task without worrying about smearing oil over it. Jo, his younger cousin, came in for her shift about that time, and her snark and wit helped the time go by quickly. By the time 8 rolled around, he was tired but satisfied with his day’s work.

            “Let’s go out for drinks,” Jo insisted as he put his things away for the day.

            “How about tomorrow? It’s already late and I’m a mess,” he said, gesturing vaguely at his worn jeans and plain gray t-shirt, a few grease stains on it.

            “Aw, c’mon. I’m not going home to clean up, and you look fine too. Just a few drinks over at the Pit. I’m meeting Bella at 10, come keep me company till then, at least.”

            “Jo, I’m tired. And I hate Bella,” Dean snorted.

            “Then leave when she gets there, I don’t care. You’d let your poor, vulnerable, defenseless little cousin become prey to bar assholes?” she pleaded, sticking out her lip in an exaggerated pout and raising her eyebrows.

            “Yeah, ‘defenseless’,” Dean snorted. Jo had been 11 when she and her father had been walking home and her dad was killed by the muggers who jumped them. Since then she’d taken martial arts twice as violent as Dean’s (she was the one who’d convinced him to start trying some in the first place) and she had at least one very sharp knife concealed on her person at all times.

            “Dean, c’mon. It’s a Friday night. You don’t work until 2 tomorrow. I’ll even buy your drinks,” she coaxed.

            Dean sighed, knowing from past experience how stubborn the little blonde was. “Alright, fine. But I’m leaving when Bella gets there.”

            “Yes!” Jo exclaimed happily, punching the air. “Also, can you drive us over?”

            “Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that simple, you’d want something out of it,” Dean laughed. “Fine.”

            The Pit wasn’t exactly Dean’s tastes- he preferred the more western-like bars with plain (if dim) lighting and a jukebox. The Pit was a bit more like a club, but it was still bar-ish enough for Dean not to hate it. The main level and bar was pretty classic- dark and black everything, low lighting, music thudding low in the background. The dance floor was sunk behind the main level, and the main level overlapped it, a bit like a balcony.

            Jo insisted they start the night hard, with four powerful shots down the hatch, one right after another, before they ordered beers and sat down at a table off to the side of the room overlooking the dance floor.

            “The _hell_ is this?” Dean huffed after taking a few deep drafts. “Tastes like fruity.”

            “It was whatever was on tap,” Jo said carelessly, taking a big gulp and nodding appreciatively. “Not bad.”

            “It’s friggin girly. Why did I come here?” Dean asked himself out loud. “I’m tired and I’m not gonna get any chicks anyways, cause I’m drinking fucking _fruity_ beer and sitting here with my cousin. Everyone’s gonna think I’m here with you and won’t come near.”

            “And because pouting is unattractive. And you’ve got black shit smudged on your forehead,” she added helpfully. He groaned and threw back the rest of his beer before standing.

            “I’m going to wash that off, thanks for telling me earlier. There’d better be another of those for me when I get back,” he scoffed, turning to go to the bathroom. He picked his way through the crowd fairly unsteadily- he wasn’t a lightweight, but drinking that much that fast was sure to impair his balance. When he got to the bathroom, he swung the door open and almost clocked a guy in the face with it.

            “Ohshit, sorry!” he cried, smiling apologetically.

            “No apologies necessary, it was merely a close call,” the guy said with a small laugh. His voice was low and rough, odd on such a well-put-together man. Dean smiled again hesitantly and awkwardly stepped around him to the dirty sinks and smudgy mirrors. Friggin club bathrooms. Ick.

            Yep, big smear of black grease up at his hairline, probably something on his arm that he’d smucked over himself while wiping away sweat. Nice. He grabbed a paper towel and wetted it, wiping it away and squinting in the blurry mirror, trying to see if he’d gotten it all.

            “Allow me to assist you.” It was Door Guy, getting another paper towel and moistening it with water from the sink. Before Dean could protest, he was leaning in slightly and carefully rubbing the mark off.

            _Blue_ , Dean thought, blinking with surprise. “Uh, thanks.”

            “You’re welcome. That’s all of it,” Blue-Eyes-Door-Guy said, tossing the paper towel in the trash and stepping back out of Dean’s personal space. He was eyeing Dean thoughtfully as he opened the door and stepped back to let him through first.

            “Thanks again,” Dean said uncomfortably, stepping through and skittering back to his table with Jo quickly. She’d gotten him another beer, and he soon forgot about Polite-Blue-Eyes-Door-Guy.


	2. I Want YOU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually update this fast, but I'm impatient for it to get somewhere and that first chapter seemed like a big bunch of blah.

            “Thanks again,” Dean said uncomfortably, stepping through and skittering back to his table with Jo quickly. She’d gotten him another beer, and he soon forgot about Polite-Blue-Eyes-Door-Guy.

            “So this bitch thinks that changing her battery would be like changing the batteries to her fucking TV remote or something, and she doesn’t understand why I told her to go wait so we could do it, she thought she’d be able to do it. And I told her it was more complicated, but she’s dead set on doing it herself cause she’s a fucking ‘independent woman’ or something. I tell her fine, go ahead, and I go get some coffee. I come back and she’s sitting on the floor crying cause she broke her nail and couldn’t even fucking _find_ the batteries. Then, when I’m doing it for her and giving her a tide stick for the oil she sat in, she asks me if it takes double A or triple A batteries!” Dean said, laughing so hard he could hardly tell the story, leaning his chair back on two legs. Jo was wiping at tears at the corners of her eyes, in hysterics.

            “Fucking _D_ batteries for _dumbass_ , how about?” she hiccupped, which sent them both back into stitches again.

            “Am I interrupting?” a pompous english-tainted voice asked. Dean turned to give Bella her customary scowl of a greeting. Of course she was looking gorgeous in a teeny tiny black dress and obnoxious teal pumps.

            “Hey Bella! Sit down, join us- Dean, go get us drinks,” Jo said, pulling a chair over. Dean snorted.

            “Double cyanide, extra dry for the whore?” he said with an overlarge smile.

            “At least I’m not a screamer,” Bella said pointedly. Dean scowled at her perfect lips and flipped her the bird, but went over to the bar anyways.

            He ordered the drinks and leaned against the bar to wait, and was startled by a calm, friendly, formal voice behind him.

            “Hello again.” He turned to see who was talking to him. It was Polite-Blue-Eyes-Door-Guy.

            “Oh, hey. Uh, what’s up?” he said, trying to be friendly and pretend the awkwardly close moment in the bathroom hadn’t happened.

            “Oh, you know. Whatever activities everyone always does when alone at a bar,” he said, waving a hand in a blasé manner and sitting at the bar beside Dean. “And you?  
            “Keeping my crazyass cousin company till her british whore friend arrived,” he said with good-humored grumpiness.

            “That sounds… entertaining,” the Polite-Blue-Eyes-Door-Guy said hesitantly.

            “Yeah, ‘entertaining’ is the best way to put it, I guess. Her friend just got here, though, and we’ve got weird history.”

            “A love-hate history, I would guess?” the guy said with a knowing smile.

            “Yeah, one of those. Good call,” Dean laughed. “It was a bad idea from the start. One of those things that’s all fire, you know? And fire is fun to play with and it’s hot and all, but then you see all the shit you’ve burned and how bad you’ve burned yourself. And everything’s fucking on fire.”

            “I see. I’ve never experienced one of those relationships myself, so I can’t empathize, but I can sympathize.” The guy raised a hand to call the barkeeper over. “Two whiskeys, on the rocks.”

            “Thanks, man,” Dean said with surprised appreciation. “You got a name? I’m getting tired of calling you Polite-Blue-Eyes-Door-Guy.”

            “I’m not sure if that name is a compliment, but I’ll take it as such. My name is Castiel,” he said, holding out a long-fingered hand. Dean grasped it.

            “Dean.”

            “Pleasure to meet you. So, Dean, what do you do?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink. Dean watched the movement, hypnotized by how precise and fluid Castiel’s every motion was. Even the way he talked was careful and graceful. It was unearthly. And yet- his tie was crooked and loose (Dean had a strange impulse to fix it), the top button of his shirt was undone, and his hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it the wrong way.

            “I, uh,” he stammered, blinking and looking back up at his eyes ( _blueblueblue_ ). “I’m a mechanic. Auto repair, all kinds of it. It’s kind of the family business.”

            “I see. And do you enjoy it?”

            “Yeah, I love it- it’s kind of my dream job, actually. I built my own car up from the piece of junk my dad let it become, then brought it back to life from practically nothing when it got t-boned by a tractor trailer.”

            “How does that pay? Well, I hope?”

            “Not really. I mean, I could live on it pretty well- I grew up pretty broke so I’m used to it. Working at the shop could keep me comfortable, I wouldn’t be rich but I could have what I want. But right now I’m trying to put my little brother through college. Stanford. Scholarships out the ass, but there’s still a bill in the mail,” he said with a shrug. “I’m working crazy hours now.”

            “Stanford, plus scholarships? He sounds like a very smart young man. You must be very proud,” Castiel offered. Dean blinked- nobody really said things like that to him.

            “I… yeah. He’s the brainy one. But I’m the pretty one,” he laughed. “He’s not much younger than me, only four years, but I had to practically raise him. Dad… well, let’s just say he wasn’t much of one. Mum died only a few months after Sammy was born and he took it hard. Got really down, never climbed back up. Got killed five years ago, driving drunk with both Sammy and I in the car- that’s when we got t-boned. I woke up out of a coma a week after the accident to the news that he was dead.”

            “My condolences, though you don’t sound very upset.”

            “Naw. I mean, I don’t like speaking bad about him, but he’d been dead for a long time before that.”

            “Pardon my judgment, but it sounds like you’ve done better since he passed. He was drunk driving with his only two living kin in the vehicle- I’m glad you and your brother survived it, and that he didn’t have a chance to endanger your lives again. I am sorry about the financial trouble, though,” Castiel said carefully, and Dean laughed, surprised again.

            “Hit the nail on the head, man! He was never much help with money. Worked just enough to buy booze and electricity and gas money. When I turned 16 and got a job at the shop, he all but quit working and relied on my paychecks. He wouldn’t have helped with Sammy’s school. That’s always been on me, just me,” he said, throwing back half his drink.

            “Well… perhaps I could help. Or, rather, we could help each other,” he said, slowly, spinning his glass between his fingers. Long fingers.

            “How d’you mean?” Dean asked cautiously. _Oh shit, is he gonna want to be some kind of sugar daddy or something?_

            “Nothing obscene, let me assure you. You see, I’m a scout of sorts. I was hoping I would see you again after meeting you in the bathroom. You have what I’ve been looking for.”

            “Whoa, whoa, what?” Dean exclaimed, shaking his head. “Look, man, I don’t roll that way-,”

            “Dean, relax. I’m talking a business proposition. I’m a modeling agent,” he laughed, pulling a business card from the inside pocket of his sports coat and giving it to him. Dean surveyed it skeptically. _Castiel Novak_ , it said. _The Garrison._

            “’The Garrison’?”

            “It’s the name of the modeling agency I work with. We wanted a more masculine name, as we specialize in male modeling, plus the new up-and-coming in female models is a more boyish, tough theme,” he explained briefly.

            “Okay… and what do you want me to do? Loan cars for fashion parades or something? Cause it’s a shop, not a dealership-,” Dean started, confused, but Castiel cut him off.

            “No, Dean, isn’t it obvious? I want you to model for me.”

            “… What.”

            “I’m surprised you’ve never modeled or acted or even been approached before. Your physique is excellent, the bone structure of your face is phenomenal- freckles that don’t detract from your skin quality, and even unshaven and straight off work, you… well, you have _the look_. I can see that, even in this dim atmosphere. The moment I saw you- grease on your face, frowning, fairly intoxicated- I was struck by a profound certainty,” he said, leaning forward slightly, eyes alight and a half-smile on his lips.

            “Dude, what do you even…? Look, I don’t have… anything, I don’t have this ‘look’ you’re searching for. Do guys even model? Is that a thing? I’m a GED mechanic, and the most I know about fashion is that everything goes with jeans, and heels make your ass look good. Not that the second one is from personal experience or anything,” he added hurriedly. Maybe he was a little more than ‘fairly’ intoxicated. But this guy, Castiel, he had to be pretty drunk too, if he thought Dean was gonna be a male model.

            “You wouldn’t be putting your outfits together, of course,” he laughed, as if the idea was completely absurd. _Yes, because me, high school dropout, daddy issues, ambitiousless grease-monkey, being a male model (which are ridiculous enough) isn’t absurd at all._ “You wouldn’t have to do anything, just promise to keep up your physical health, perhaps take a few walking and posing classes, and flash those big green eyes at the camera. It is, literally, ‘sitting there and looking pretty’. Model quality is a talent you can only be born with, like artistic skill, a singing voice, or a mathematical mind. You are blessed with it, and it would be a shame to ignore it.” His blue eyes were earnest and hopeful.

            It didn’t sound that bad. Dean thoughtfully fished a piece of ice out of his glass and chewed on it. “I don’t know, man. Male modeling? I don’t want pictures of me, pouting in my underwear, billboard sized for a bunch of 12-year-old girls to ooze over. Modeling is kind of… weird.”

            “Underwear modeling? No, you’re too down to earth for that- we don’t just match bodies and ‘the look’ to the outfit, we match the personality. I don’t deal much with underwear models, the best ones are consistently petty and vainglorious. I would put you in sportswear- athletic gear, perhaps some hunting gear. I can see you doing a layered fall wardrobe very well. You’ve got the shoulders and jawline to do a very successful formal wear as well, but I’m uncertain that you’re a person who comfortably dresses up. If I can tiptoe around your comfort level, I can see you looking fantastic in a large variety of outfits. But I promise you one thing, with absolute certainty- I will not make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he asserted firmly. “I will ask you before I give you anything to do, and you will tell me if you want to or not. It will be entirely up to you. I may ask you something you don’t want, but all you have to do is say no, and we’ll move on to something else.”

            Dean knew his reasons for saying no were disproved, but he was still hesitant. “Well…”

            Castiel leaned back again, gesturing for another drink, and said confidently, “Did I mention the pay?”

            “No,” Dean said, perking up slightly but trying to still look disinterested, digging out another piece of ice.

            He named a number and Dean nearly choked on the ice.

            “You can cut back to more reasonable hours at the auto shop, have some time for yourself. The hours you’ll need to put into The Garrison will be small enough that, even working both jobs, you’ll still have plenty of free time. Just be sure to keep your physique, don’t spend all that time overindulging in places like this,” he said jokingly, taking his new drink and sliding a bill across the bar to the barkeeper, paying his tab and telling him to keep the change. Dean knew the flaunting of money was a move to impress him, but it was definitely working.

            “No, I… Yeah. I’ll- I can sign back up for my martial arts classes,” he said, slightly dazed. “It’s kind of rough, though- it’s called kajukenbo, pretty much translates to fighting dirty, fancy style. Bruises-,”

            “Are no concern, we have extremely high-quality makeup that can cover anything short of an amputation,” he laughed. “When we hash out the details of your contract later, you can give me their number and I’ll take care of the bills for it. It’ll go under your fitness stipend.”

            “I have a fitness stipend?” Dean asked happily.

            “Of course. I’m- ahem- one of the ‘higher-ups’ at The Garrison. I can invent practically any kind of ‘stipend’ you want and have it done,” he said bashfully.

            “Well, shit! Awesome! When are we gonna meet for the contract and stuff?”

            “Give me your number, I’ll call you sometime tomorrow,” he said, pulling out his phone and giving it to him to program the number in.

            “Not too early, for the love of God. I’m celebrating,” he laughed, typing it in and passing it back to him.

            “Thank you. And now, as I’ve found what I was looking for, I’ll take my leave. Have an enjoyable evening, and I’ll speak with you tomorrow,” Castiel said with a nod, standing and departing with a friendly smile.

            Dean stared down at the card in his hands. _Castiel Novak. The Garrison._

            Hell yeah, he was celebrating.


End file.
